


Hello Again, Little Bro

by blackrabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Case Fic, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Mention of switching, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Semi-Public Sex, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Stanford Student Sam Winchester, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrabbit42/pseuds/blackrabbit42
Summary: It had been six months since the last time Sam had told him to stay away. To just give him a chance. Dean knew the right thing to do was to let him have that chance but the right thing to do, the easy thing to do, and the thing Dean wanted to do were seldom all the same thing.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 77
Collections: 2020 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	Hello Again, Little Bro

Dean knows where Sam lives. He's been here before. Six times to be exact. Six times that he stood on the street corner opposite, watching the lit window, telling himself he's not going to do this to Sam. And six times he's been strong enough. To walk away. Get back in the car. Take it out on something that needed to be killed.

Dad will be in Georgia for nine days. That's more than enough time to drive to Stanford and back without John being any the wiser. Dean's afraid that if he goes to Sam he won't be strong enough to come back.

_< Sam, I need help_.> Dean is frighteningly aware of how he can see the geometric pattern his fingers trace over the number pad on his phone. Sam's number: an irregular hendecagram, the text message a five-pointed star.

It takes eight minutes for Sam to text back. < _No, you don't. And we both know it. >_

And while Sam is right about Dean's motives, he's wrong about the help. Dean legitimately needs help with this case. Dean doesn't text back. It's going to take a day and a half to drive to Stanford, so he doesn't have time to wait for permission that's not going to come.

The math spins out in Dean's mind as he drives. The number of miles left to the Utah border proportionate to the total number of miles for the trip. A running tally of the sum of the primes he sees on the mile markers along the way. To say he'll be glad when this is over is an understatement, but still, it's his ticket to Sam so he's going to have to live with it. Not that he has a choice.

Sixteen hours of driving. The numbers in Sam's street address add up to nine; the last digit in the base ten system. The limit and final destination of matter. Three hundred and sixty degrees in a circle, add three plus six plus zero, you get nine. But the opposite of three-sixty is one-eighty which also condenses a nine. In other words, Dean was always going to end up here no matter how many times he turned around.

Sam's not at his apartment, so Dean texts him. < _Where are you >_ 94373 273 968 These numbers reduce to seven. Considered a sacred number, the shape of a shepherd's hook by some. The number of deadly sins. The seventh commandment? Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery. It took seven girls for Dean to learn that no one sucks cock like his brother Sam. Just one guy for him to truly believe it. Dean searches through Sam's apartment looking for signs that Sam is working on that particular lesson and finds none. There is one toothbrush in the bathroom, one coffee cup in the cabinet. Sam has been here seventeen months, apparently alone. It makes Dean jealous nonetheless. That this place without Dean is enough for Sam. 

Dean paws through Sam's things and finds signs that he's adapting to normal life. There are real sheets and a quilt on the bed instead of a rough wool blanket from the army surplus. Otter pops in the freezer. Ticket stubs to a The Strokes concert in the back of a drawer. No gun under the pillow. It hurts.

_< Tell me you're not at my place. Don't do this to me, Dean.>_

Dean texts back a series of numbers interspersed with a few Greek symbols.

It takes less than three seconds for Sam to respond. < _I'll be right there. >_

++++++++

  1. 1+9+9+5= 24. Twenty-four indicates togetherness, companionship, a family working together in harmony. In the spring of 1995, that was them. Mostly because Sam had found something to feed his stupid voracious brain. There's no arguing, no whining, just Sam in the backseat with his nose in those beat-up books. Just Sam, curled up with his naked back against Dean's stomach, nattering away about what he'd read that day until they fall asleep.



Twelve years old and already Dean can read the writing on the wall about what it means that Sam is so smart. Pulls him tighter against the day he'll leave.

He'd found the three books at Bobby's, of course. The original writings of Anantim Preobrazhensky, a hunter’s journal, and a collection of case studies. 

"That's dumb," Dean had said. "A spirit is either a spirit or it's not. If it's corporeal, it's a monster. If it's a spirit, then it's not corporeal." Then Sam launched himself into an explanation of how the math actually checked out and if Dean would really think about how blah, blah blah, and Dean loved every word that fell from that kid's mouth, no matter how crazy it all sounded.

Anantim Preobrazhensky had been a Jesuit monk from upstate New York who'd gotten into arithmancy and fallen deep down the rabbit hole. He'd found a way to use numbers and math for spell casting and ultimately managed to make himself immortal. Sort of. More like halfway between an immortal man and an angry spirit.

For the next couple of centuries, he got his jollies throwing down with mathematicians who, like him, had predilections for pushing the numbers. You got five chances to best him in the super-nerds version of The Devil Went Down to Georgia before he got to suck your soul and through some sort of mathety-math type power add it to his own and extend his shelf life. 

According to Sam, someone must have bested him in the late 1800s because the lore went dry right around that time. He hadn't been seen since. But Sam also claimed that Anantim was so powerful it was unlikely one defeat would have benched him for good. Dean nodded and mm-hmm'd at the appropriate parts in the discussion, but seriously, could there have been a more boring monster? A math ghost? Really, Sam?

Turns out Sam had been right. Old Numbers McCalculusPants was back in business. Dean was working a series of mysterious deaths-- an actuary who'd hit the lottery three times before he dropped dead in a supply closet at work. A math professor who had suddenly become very, very good at the stock market and was found dead in his office chair by a student. A housewife who'd gained millions in a pyramid house cleaning products scheme. Dean learns she had a doctorate in math that she never put to use.

Dean might have missed it if it hadn't been for something the Queen of Clean's widower had said—"I don't understand what happened to the marks."

"What marks?" Dean asked.

"She'd gotten these weird marks on her chest a few weeks ago. Like numbers, only not. She didn't want to talk about them, and we fought about it. When they had me identify the body, I noticed they were gone."

"Can you draw them?" Dean’s heart sped up. He had a suspicion he know what this was, and he was already making his plea to Sam in his head.

It had been six months since the last time Sam had told him to stay away. To just give him a chance. Dean knew the right thing to do was to let him have that chance but the right thing to do, the easy thing to do, and the thing Dean wanted to do were seldom all the same thing.

He can't say he'd made a wholehearted attempt at figuring it out on his own. He had spent a few days studying the books, but he hadn't mentioned it to Bobby who probably would have been a big help. As it stood, Anantim, or what had become of him, merely laughed when Dean summoned him and touched him on the chest. "Four more tries," he'd said. Dean had never been so relieved to fail in his life.

The symbols burn and pulse even now, and numbers swirl through his mind painting themselves over the world around him and making it impossible to think of anything else. It's a rigged game, Dean knows now, and wonders if this was in the lore and he just hadn't paid attention when Sam talked about it or if it's a secret Anantim's victims took to their graves. Or maybe this is how those math-loving kind of people always think. But whatever the story, Dean can't get these numbers out of his head. The ratio of spoons to forks in Sam's kitchen is not the same as the ratio of plates to bowls. A car drives by blaring music, and Dean sees the π of the wheels spinning around and the sine wave of the radio signals twining around and throughout the streets in its wake.

Time spins down in repeating patterns, fractions of three hundred and sixty degrees, microfractions of the ratio between sixty seconds, sixty minutes, twenty-four hours, three hundred and sixty-five days. The proportion of time that he's been waiting here for Sam to the total amount of time since Sam left. When Sam comes through the door and all the cycles sync up to zero it's like time has been suspended. He floats, weightless, the room in a slow drift around him. Nothing steady but Sam.

Then everything speeds up. Reality slams back into hyperfocus and Sam's standing there with his eyes lit and restless fingers. Dean had expected him to be mad, but that was dumb. The two of them are a simple equation and just because Sam had taken himself out of the calculation for a little while didn't change the truth about what they equaled when they were together.

"Do you have it?" Sam asks, breathless. He gestures towards his own chest.

Dean lifts his shirt. Curving out from his sternum, up towards his neck like a ram's horn is a spray of numbers. Sam had explained to him once, a countdown. Dean could never make sense of it, but Sam understood it and at the time that had been enough.

Sam steps closer and traces the numbers with his fingers. "You only tried once?" he asks. Dean closes his eyes so he can absorb the touch, the faint whoosh of Sam's breath on his bare skin, the sound of Sam's voice in the same room as him.

"I told you, Sam, I need your help."

++++++++

All the numbers in the library crowd in on Dean. All the systems, all the repetitions. His mind is constantly distracted by patterns he detects. Not just in the cataloging system but in the design of the carpet, the ceiling tiles, and everything in between. Like he said, a rigged game. No way anyone could think straight with all this crap circling around in their brain.

But now he's got a compass, his true north. After all this time he's got his Sam with him; close enough to touch any time he needs. Everything is so familiar. Dean's fingertips remember the way Sam's warmth feels through the rough denim of his jeans. The way Sam's pulse beats at the base of his neck. The math of Sam’s pulse comes easily to Dean; sixty-eight beats per minute, four thousand beats per hour.

Sam touches him back. Constantly. Just little brushes with the back of his knuckles, or his knee pressed against Dean's under the table. Sam didn't leave because he didn't want to be this way with Dean; he left because he couldn't help wanting to be this way. The sunlight is streaming through the library windows illuminating the pages of the open books around them. Sam's wearing a red Stanford hoodie and looks like he belongs here. Dean can't quite wrap his head around that, but he loves seeing Sam so… comfortable. Content. It stings, but every time Sam casually touches him, a touch Dean has been missing for over a year now, he pushes the sting deeper down.

"It's going to be fine," Sam says. "No more difficult than laying a devil's trap. Those other victims had to start from ground zero, but you've got the lore. It's like walking into an open book test with a copy of the Cliff notes in your pocket."

For six hours they study. Sam teaches him what he needs to know. It's not a one-size-fits-all spell, there are all kinds of factors to consider. Any one of which completely changes the whole and sends them back to the beginning to start the calculations over again.

And layered over everything is the ticking of the clock, the day turning to night, Sam's apartment waiting for them. It's like the old days. They worked because they had to work and because Dad was either watching them or, if he wasn't with them, had expectations about how much work would be done when he got back. The tension would build, and they'd just work harder, gunning for those dark hours alone just the two of them, hot breath and racing hearts.

“I miss this, Sam. Don’t you?” Dean cannot understand why this isn’t enough for Sam. Sure, Sam’s smart, but what better direction to channel all that intellect to cases like this? Don’t they make the world a better place? They make a _real_ difference in people’s lives. 

“I do,” Sam says simply. Dean isn’t good at this. Sam was always the one who wanted to talk things to death. Sam continues on where they left off. “So remember, this first figure is always going to indicate—”

“I mean more than just working a case. You got to give me something here, Sam. I did what you asked. I gave you some space. I gave you a chance. Why can’t—”

Sam cuts him off. “Because you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Dean, this is not the place.” 

Sam’s probably right, but it’s not that easy for Dean to drop it. He’s been holding back these questions for a year and a half now and here’s Sam who could give him all the answers. It’s like when you’re trying to read a book in your dream; all the words are _right there_ but you just can’t read them.

He opens his mouth to argue but Sam gives him a pleading look. “Please, Dean.” Never in his life has Dean been able to stand firm in the face of that look. He snaps his jaw shut. There’s still time. 

“Okay, Sammy. Okay. We’ll talk later. Tell me about this first figure business.” 

When Dean can't take any more, when he can no longer tell the difference between a sexigesimal cycle and a simple astrological progression, he closes the book in front of him. He angles his body toward Sam and hooks his fingers behind Sam's knee. It’s a concession. He’ll take however much of Sam that Sam is willing to give. If Sam doesn’t want to talk about it, Dean isn’t going to spoil the night by forcing the issue. There’s always been only one way to reward themselves for a hard day’s work, and Dean has waited too long for this to fuck it up now. "C'mon, Sam. Enough. Let's go get a beer."

++++++++

The bar, the drinks, it's all a ruse, of course. They don't need to get drunk as an excuse. Sam's ready to go and Dean's already there. But it's part of the game, drawing out the anticipation of it. And frankly, Dean is sort of hoping that a good drink might help wash away some of the numbers out of his head. The address of the bar is a palindrome; there are three waitresses, one bartender, and twenty-nine patrons at the bar. Thirty-one including them, all primes, not to mention that 1, 3, 31 makes a palindrome as well. The factors of 1,331 are 1, 11, 121, and 1331, which Dean's brain scratches at, trying to fit it into a pattern.

Sam's apparently lost his ability to hold his liquor, something that doesn't surprise Dean because there were no empties in Sam's apartment. Sam only ever drank to make Dean happy. Two drinks in and he's sloppy and overly honest, which always endeared him to Dean. He loves seeing those little glimpses into Sam's hidden self, his true thoughts.

But not this time. "Dean," Sam says, "I don't want to." He's leaning up against the bar with his hands on Dean's waist. Dean's standing close, legs slotted through Sam's. They're getting dirty looks from the bartender and the dudes to their left are decidedly not looking their way. Like hell Sam doesn't want to. Dean's had girls who didn't want to before and it's always a hands-off, thank-you-for-the-lovely-evening, ma'am situation. This isn't that.

He leans in close. "C'mon, Sam, don't be a tease. It's been too long."

"No, Dean, I mean, of course I want…" Sam hooks a finger through Dean's belt loop and pulls him in closer. Dean can feel exactly how much Sam wants it. "I mean I don't want to… do this to you. Get off and send you on your way. 'Cause that's what has to happen."

This is the second time they've had this exact conversation. The first time being when Sam left for school saying they had to cut it out. Saying that doing it one last time was a bad idea. Saying it all with Dean's tongue well down his throat and meaning every word but letting Dean convince him anyway.

But back then, hadn't Dean thought, you'll see? Hadn't Dean thought Sam would find out the hard way and be back in a few days, weeks, tops? Now Sam knows what it's like on his own and he's still saying this? Still choosing Stanford over him?

"I survived this long Sam, don't you worry about me." There is a part of him that's worried because Sam is stubborn and if he says he's going to kick Dean out in the morning, he will. The 547 nights Dean spent without Sam nearly killed him. But there's another part of him, namely his dick, that says they'll worry about that in the morning.

Sam's mouth curls into an I'm-going-to-have-my-cake-and-eat-it-too smile that Dean needs to cover with his own mouth.

"Hey, you two, get a room, why don't you?" the bartender grouses at them.

The bar was always a ruse. 

++++++++

They only make it one block from the bar before Sam pulls Dean into an alley. "It's been a long time for me, too, Dean," he says, hands rucking up Dean's shirt, fingers finding their way around the button on his fly. "Maybe just show it to me. Let me look at it."

Dean remembers this. Remembers Sam being all business all day and how easily he could put whatever they were working on aside once the lights went out. 

Dean lets his head thunk back against the brick wall. The very best place to be, at the mercy of Sam's cravings. Sam's sure of what he wants and is impatient to get it; he makes a groan of need and presses their mouths together, forcing Dean to welcome him in.

The taste of Sam is something he'll never get used to and never forget, that wet shock of warmth. Sam grinds them together leaving no space for doubts or second-guessing now, no guilt. He'll later claim that he warned Dean, and Dean plays along. He knows how this goes; from "I just want to look at it," to "no-one will notice if I hide it between us" to smirking as best as he can with Dean in his mouth when people walk by the entrance of the alley and quickly look away.

And that's just what happens. Give Sam an inch, and then next thing you know you're getting your dick sucked in a dark alley. Sam slides his fingers around Dean's dick and pulls him out; the night air of the alley is cool on his skin, a contrast to Sam's warmth. Sam doesn't waste any time and doesn't look around to see if anyone might see them. He just sinks down in front of Dean. Dean can see what this is. This is Sam saying he’s sorry. Sorry for leaving, sorry for wanting anything other than this. Saying he’ll do anything Dean asks him to while begging Dean not to ask him to give up his freedom. 

“Put it in your mouth, Sam.” It’s Dean’s way of saying, okay, Sammy. 

Sam's tongue is so warm and familiar, like coming home. It melts all the tension Dean's been holding in his body for months, and although Sam isn't being particularly tender with him, he can't help but run his fingers fondly through Sam's hair. "I missed you so much, Sam." He says it quietly. He doesn't think Sam hears.

One alley, two brothers, no witnesses.

+++++++++++

The next day, it's on to theory and practice. So far, Dean has just been learning to translate and interpret the symbols, the language of math. Now he learns how to use it.

All this time he's been thinking that these intrusive thoughts (the number of hours of sleep they got was inversely proportional to the number of times they fucked… the tabletop he fucked Sam on was so close to being a golden ratio, perhaps only off by 1.62 centimeters... Sam is 20, Dean is 24…they were 17 and 21 when Sam first made him come, the difference between their ages is getting smaller in proportion to their actual ages), Dean had thought it was a curse, something Anantim did to torture his victims and drive them insane. But now he sees that it was the monk's way of giving his adversaries a fair shake at this contest. His ego probably told him he was safe either way, so he might as well make it interesting.

Even with Sam's help, Dean would never have been able to make sense of all this spellwork if it weren't for the way he sees things now. Patterns and meanings jump off the page at him. It’s almost like the way Dad would tack leads up onto a wall and draw lines where he'd made a connection. Dean finds himself nodding along to Sam's tutelage and even making some leaps of logic that surprise Sam, but that check out when they go through it looking for flaws.

Dean gets why Sam had been into this guy and his numbers crap. It's exactly like those card games Sam and his nerd-friends of the week were into. _Pokemon_ or _Magic, the Gathering_. It all boils down to a greater than/less than situation; you could have an intensely powerful card, but you could be brought down by a relatively weaker card if your opponent tacked on the right mitigating factors and had luck on their side. 

This is the same thing. Dean is obviously the weaker contestant in this challenge but that doesn't mean he can't win. In fact, the more he learns about it, the more it seems like this guy made it so that anyone who did their homework and studied the lore had a fair shot at beating him. He must have been worried he wouldn’t find any worthy challengers. Egotistical prick. Still, Dean’s grateful.

There's just one thing that is not adding up. Sam. Sam, who can't stop touching him. Sam, who dragged him into the shower in the morning for one last go before they hit the books. Sam, who wants to tell Dean everything, touch Dean everywhere. Like he wants to gather together every shred of Dean that he can and store it away for later use. Dean can tell that Sam’s planning on him leaving. Dean wants to scream at him. He doesn't need to leave. Sam doesn't need to stay.

Dean gave Sam everything he had last night. Everything. He did it slow. He did it rough. He did that edging thing that Sam likes and even let him top once "just to see if they liked it," (they did, but they didn't do it that way again.) He kept thinking it would break Sam. Break his stupid fucking stubborn streak. Kept thinking Sam would say something to the effect that he was wrong. Dean didn't even care if he wanted to stay here at Stanford, as long as Sam let him back in.

But although Dean still found he could make Sam groan with want and squirm with need, begging without shame for Dean to go harder or to wait, Dean had this sense the whole time that there was a part of Sam he wasn't reaching. The part that had the power to change what happened for them the next day and the day after that.

"Dean, you're not paying attention. You need to order these as if they were a Fibonacci sequence, but do it regular one way and chiral on top of that."

"Sam, why are you doing this?"

Sam knows what Dean's talking about. Dean can tell because of the way his jaw tightens, the way he doesn't look away. He stabs Dean in the chest with two fingers. The night before he'd run his tongue over the raw-flesh imprint where Anantim had marked him. Stroked off over it. His fingers find it easily because Sam had always had a perfect memory for Dean's body, how all the pieces fit together. "Because of this, jerk. You may be Rain-manning the numbers, but he's still going to kick your ass unless you can put it all together. It's one thing to—"

"You know that's not what I'm talking about. Why are you letting me in if you're just going to kick me out again? Do you have any fucking idea… any idea how—"

"I told you not to do this to me. I told you I didn't want to do this to you."

There he goes. Telling Dean he warned him. But Sam is smart. And not just in the king-of-the-lore-and-library way. In sneaky ways. In stubborn ways. In the didn't-deal-but-is-somehow-holding-all-the-aces kind of way. He knows exactly how deep he can cut Dean. He knows nothing can ever cut Dean away completely. He knows that Dean knows it and that it's all part of the twisted logic of Dean's love.

"That's bullshit, Sam, and you know it." Gone is the playful, sunlit atmosphere of yesterday. Twenty-four hours, three hundred and sixty degrees rotation of the earth, only zero-point-nine-eight-six degrees around the sun, but the mood could not be more different than if decades separated them. He remembers the playful touches, the teasing in the bar, the back-alley thrill that had them grinning like mischievous schoolboys.

Now he wants to drag him back to his crappy apartment and punish him into the mattress. Fuck that manipulative streak right the hell out of him.

"We don't need to talk about this right now," Sam hisses, jerking his chin over his shoulder towards a group of Business Admin students studying nearby. "You need to get your head in the game or why bother coming here? You're supposed to be here for this," Sam says, punctuating the word with another stab at Anantim's mark. "None of the rest of it matters if you don't make it past that countdown."

There's that thing again. The thing Dean cannot touch. The look in Sam's eyes that says this conversation is over. The line Sam has drawn within himself that says— this part is for Dean and this part is mine and a lot of things are going to have to burn before that line could ever be re-negotiated.

So it's back to the books. Sam grills him on the exceptions to the rules, the arcane miscellany that can build up a spell or tear it all apart like a house of straw. It's dark and closing time before they're done, and the librarian needs to kick them out, tutting in disapproval at the stacks of books she'll need to reshelf before tomorrow.

Just outside the door, Sam pushes Dean back up against the brick of the library entrance. But it's not the needy, hungry Sam of the night before. Sam rests forehead down on Dean's shoulder. They're both tired but this is something different. This is Sam trying to get around to something really hard for him.

"You don't need to come back to my place," he says. "You don't have to. You're done. You're ready."

Doubtful, but Dean gets what he means. He's learned all that he's going to.

"You don't want me to?" Dean feels stiff, like he's made out of scar tissue.

"How can you not know?" Sam asks. "How can you not know how badly I want you there? Here. With me? How can you ask me that after last night?"

"Maybe because you keep saying it. I keep asking you why I’m not enough for you, and you’ve got my dick in one hand and you’re showing me the door with the other.” This is the thing that Dean doesn't get. He knows what he wants. He wants a life with Sam in it. There's crap in the way like Dad and the world and any one of a thousand enemies that would sooner eat their souls for breakfast than look at them, but none of that would matter to Dean. For him, it's a simple equation. He doesn't get why everything needs to be so complicated with Sam.

It’s the same thing over and over. They can argue it a hundred different ways and it always comes down to Sam being stubborn about something he wants. Dean gives up. He doesn't get it, and he might never get it but to his dying breath he's always going to want to give Sam what he thinks he needs. "Come on. Let's go home. No strings attached." They both know it's a lie, but one that they're willing to live with for now.

They're exhausted, but they both know this is it. The last night. Last night sex is kind of a specialty of Dean's, but it's different being on the receiving end of the pain. There's a certain kind of hurt that feels comfortable to Dean. Familiar, companionable even. The blunt trauma of a fist, the sliding sear of a knife. This is not that kind of hurt. This is not a broken bone that can be set or a cut that can be stitched. He's never gotten over Sam leaving the first time and having to relive it all over again whittles him down to nothing but need.

Dean sits on the edge of Sam’s bed and snags Sam by the waist, pulling him close. Last night Sam had knelt in front of him in the alley. Tonight it’s Dean’s turn to look up at Sam and ask for things he has no right to.

He pulls Sam's clothes off, almost not seeing Sam himself but rather the idea of Sam, the idea of having Sam to keep. He runs his hands over Sam's flesh like a blind man memorizing the contours of something he needs to imprint in his mind. "Sam," he says, his voice a crack in the earth, a cascade of zeros and nothingness piling up then spilling into the abyss.

Sam is still standing in front of Dean. Dean opens his mouth and traces the hollow of Sam’s hipbone with his tongue, closing his eyes and tasting the clean salt of Sam’s skin. Sam offers himself to Dean, one piece at a time. Lets him suck on the tender flesh on the underside of his wrist, his hip, the sensitive tip of his cock, cleaning up the bitter leak that wells at the tip. Sam’s breath catches and his knees weaken. Dean pulls him down onto the bed.

“I got you, Sam.” And he does, even if just for now. He kisses Sam possessively, forcing his mouth open wide and grinding up against him, as if he could press them together like clay. 

His hands grip Sam just on the wrong side of painful, trying to make him into something permanent for himself.

He covers Sam with his body, just for now blocking him from the rest of the world. Sam’s naked body squirming underneath him makes him desperate to do something, _anything_ to keep this. To keep Sam. He ruts his cock against Sam’s, thinking, _feel that Sammy? Can you feel what you mean to me?_

Sam spreads his legs, bucking up his hips to let Dean line up, but Dean is not ready for this to be over yet, and he knows the second he pushes into Sam it will be over. He kisses Sam’s forehead and brushes his sweaty hair out of his face. 

“I want you so bad, Sam,” he says. “More than monsters.” Sam laughs. It’s an old joke between them and it's so fucking good because right then for those moments, Sam is right there with him and there's no _enjoy this while you can because tomorrow_ ; there's just him giving and Sam taking.

He slides into Sam and Sam pulls him in deeper, hands behind his neck, heels behind his calves. A smile curves across Sam’s lips and he exhales as Dean pulls back slowly. That smile, that _my-brother-is-balls-deep-up-my-ass-and-I’ve-never-felt-anything-better-in-my-life_ smile is everything Dean will ever need. Looking at that smile he can pretend that there’s going to be a next time. He doesn’t take it slow. He thrusts in an out of Sam, desperate and needy. Sam takes it, pulling Dean in deeper with his hands on the back of Dean’s thighs. 

“You gonna come for me, Sam? You want to come?” 

Sam nods his head, teeth gritted to keep from crying out. “So close,” he manages to say. “Just stroke it, Dean. Once is all it will take.” 

He’s right. Sam comes as soon as Dean wraps his fingers around his cock, one quick movement up and down the shaft timed with the rhythm of his thrusting hips and Sam was spilling all over Dean’s hand. The heat of Sam’s come on Dean’s fingers tips drives Dean over the edge and he, too, is coming, locked deep up in Sam and holding on tight as if he’d never have to let go. 

It's a one-shot deal. They're exhausted and raw, and Sam lays with his head in the crook of Dean's arm, legs wound through Dean's in a way that he remembers from lazy nights when Dad was far, far away.

Sam is uncharacteristically quiet, and Dean just lets numbers tumble through his mind without sticking, simultaneously noting the slowing of Sam's heart, the winding down of his breath, the ticking away of the seconds. Every so often there's a hitch in Sam's breath like maybe he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Not for a long time.

Then, just when Dean starts losing track of what's real and what's a rabbit hole dream, Sam says quietly, "You can do something that I can't."

Dean doesn't say anything. He knows Sam has to get it out his way.

"You can be your own person and also be this with me."

Sam's heart rate skips a few steps on the way up. Dean feels it smashing against his ribcage.

"I can't do that,” Sam says. “It swallows me up. It takes over everything else that I am. I was losing…" He's quiet for a while, and Dean knows why. All the words Dean threw at him like bullets when they fought about this before. How Sam was choosing this other life over him. "I was losing the other possibilities for myself."

That's when it clicks for Dean. This whole greater than/less than business. This whole adding up the numbers, tacking on all the special attacks and power boosters, and how the sum can be greater than the whole and you can have a great card and still be beat by another in the right circumstances. How he can take what he knows and send Anantim back to the nether for another few hundred years. How Sam's need for him can be so powerful, and yet still be trumped by something like Stanford.

There is nothing, _nothing_ Dean would put before Sam, including his own life, including the life he wants with Sam.

"You do it then, Sam," he says.

In the morning, he's gone before he can hurt Sam with a goodbye that begs for more than Sam is willing to give.

++++++++

In the end, it's easy to make short work of Anantim. There have been a few hundred years of development in mathematical theory since the Monk's time and although Dean would be hard-pressed to explain any of it to your average passerby, Sam helped him enough to put together a pretty decent cheat sheet. Sam, Dean, Dad, and all the hunters they know will be ashes blowing in the wind long before Anantim makes his way back to the human realm. In the meantime, Sam will add what they've learned to the lore.

When Dad gets back from Georgia, Dean has another case lined up—a solo in a Nebraska county that John needs to steer clear of for a few more years yet. He's been thinking a lot about what Sam said about being his own person. For Dean, his own person now includes the ache of a Sam-shaped hole in his life, and he needs to get good with that.

One hundred and sixty-one thousand miles of American highway, four tires on the asphalt, and one half of something that will probably never be whole again. Dean points the car away from the West Coast and hits the gas.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for spn_reversebang. Thank you mods for hosting my favorite challenge. Happy 10 year anniversary! How lucky was I to snag this super talented artist? There have been many days since the claims that I looked at this piece when I needed a smile. Visit her Tumblr at https://frecklesanddimples.tumblr.com/ Many thanks to my tirelessly patient betas- nynxlynx and firesign10. One of these days I will figure out how to use commas properly. Until then, they are the firewall between you, dear reader, and utter punctuation chaos.


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